The Echo Man jbakb-5

by Richard Montanari

  Byrne put a hand to his heart. 'Mea culpa.' He smiled at her. 'Mrs. Of course.'

  A blush. 'How can I help you, Mr. Strong?'

  'I love your store, by the way. Did I see Kolinsky sables on the way in?' It was something Byrne had seen on the store's website. He knew that the woman carried the brushes.

  'Yes,' she said. 'You know your brushes.'

  'And now to the point. I recently attended the PortPhilio show in Philadelphia. Did you manage to make it to the affair?'

  Say no, Byrne thought. Please say no.

  'No. I wanted to, but I'm all alone here since my son went back to school. I couldn't get away.'

  'It was fabulous.'

  The door opened behind them, ringing the bell again. A woman entered the store. Alicia's eyes flicked over to the new customer, then back.

  'Anyway, I met a man there, a printmaker, who recommended your shop. He showed me some of his work and it was fantastic.'

  'How nice.'

  'I would really like to contact him, but I'm afraid I lost his card and I don't remember his name.'

  'And he said he purchased supplies here?'

  'Yes.'

  'He was from Doylestown?'

  'I don't know.'

  'What did the man look like?'

  Shit, Byrne thought. He had no idea what to say. He didn't even know if it was a man. He aimed for the middle, culling from a standard profile. 'I'm terrible at these things. But I'd say he was thirty to forty. Medium height and weight. I'm not sure of his hair because he was wearing a ball cap.' This was as vague as Byrne could get. He smiled at Alicia. 'I'm a lot better with remembering women.'

  Another blush. 'Well, that's not too much for me to go on.'

  'Maybe this will help. During the course of our conversation he mentioned his printmaking technique, and said he was enamored of a certain brand of paper. An Italian paper. Quite expensive.'

  'Do you remember the line?'

  'I do not. But he showed me a sample and the watermark was Venus de Milo.'

  'Atriana.'

  Byrne snapped his fingers. 'That's it.'

  The woman frowned. 'That's not an item we generally keep in stock. I've only sold a few dozen sheets in the past year or so.'

  Alicia turned to her computer, tapped a few keys. In a moment a screen came up. Byrne could see the reflection in her glasses. It was a database program and she had found an entry. She nodded, perhaps remembering the man.

  'I'm afraid I can't give you anyone's name. Our mailing list is confidential, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  'If you'd like, I could take your information and have them get in touch with you.'

  'That would be great.'

  Just then there was a loud crash at the back of the store. Alicia spun around to see a woman at the rear, next to a toppled display rack of oil paints.

  'Shoot!' the woman at the back exclaimed.

  'Oh my,' Byrne said. 'Look, why don't you tend to this terribly clumsy woman and I'll stop back in a few minutes. I have to hit the ATM, anyway.'

  'That would be fine.'

  As Alicia walked to the rear of the store to help Jessica pick up the spilled merchandise, Byrne spun the LCD monitor to face him. His eyes scanned the screen. The problem was that he was not wearing his glasses. The customer's name was a little larger than the rest of the entry. He got that with no problem. It was a company called Marcato LLC.

  Beneath that: Attention JP Novak. Byrne looked at the bottom. Philadelphia. In between, it was mostly a blur.

  He spun the monitor back, turned on his heels, and left the store.

  They pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to route 611.

  'Did we get it?'

  'I got the name,' Byrne said. 'And a partial address.'

  'A partial address?'

  Byrne fell silent.

  'You weren't wearing your glasses.'

  Byrne plowed forward. He checked the notes that he'd scribbled after leaving the store. 'The paper was purchased by a company called Marcato LLC. Contact name is JP Novak. The address is in Philly. Something something something something Ashingdale Road. Or Arlington. I think the number was 8180 or 5150. Maybe 6160.'

  Jessica shook her head. 'You know, those glasses do serve a purpose.'

  'I don't see you wearing yours all the time.'

  'Mind your own business, Mr. Strong. Now, drive the car and let me start sleuthing.'

  On the way back to Philadelphia Jessica called in the name. There was no phone listing for a JP Novak, nor anyone with that name in PCIC with a criminal record. They found more than three dozen listings for Novaks with J as an initial: John, Joseph, Jerry, Jerszy, Jacob, Joshua.

  She also looked up Marcato and did not find any company with that name, LLC or otherwise. She did find a definition of the word and found that it was Italian for marked, and when it was applied to music it meant performing the note with an 'attack' and a sustain of two-thirds of the original written length, followed by an audible counted rest.

  According to one source the marcato sound was 'a rhythmic thrust followed by a decay of the sound.'

  Who would name their company this? Jessica wondered.

  When they returned to the Roundhouse they searched every database for a JP Novak, as well as for Philadelphia streets named Ashingdon or dozens of possible permutations. They asked everyone on the floor if they knew of any Philly streets or courts or lanes by that name or similar names. There were a few close matches but nothing exact.

  After twenty minutes of strikeouts Jessica stood, began to peruse the large paper map on the wall. You could only look at a computer screen for so long before going six-eyed with fatigue. Somehow she put her finger on two possibilities.

  'Look at this,' she said. 'There's a street in West Philly called Abingdon.'

  Byrne shot to his feet. 'That's it.' 'There's also one called Ashingdale.' 'Shit.'

  Josh Bontrager grabbed his coat. 'I'll take Ashingdale.' Jessica and Byrne headed to the door. 'Kevin?'

  'What?'

  'Bring your glasses.'

  Chapter 30

  The addresses on Abingdon Road stopped at 7000, so this eliminated the chance of the address being 8180. Jessica and Byrne drove to the far end of the street, worked back from 5150. This was a body shop called D and K Motor Cars. No one inside knew anyone named Novak, nor a company called Marcato LLC.

  The address at 6160 was a gentrified apartment building called the Beau Rive, perhaps at one time a warehouse. The front had recently been stuccoed, and all four apartments in the front had leaded-glass bay windows.

  Byrne pulled over, cut the engine.

  'Hang on,' Jessica said.

  She got out of the car, walked up the steps to the apartment building. She walked into the small lobby and looked at the mailboxes. There were six suites. She scanned the names. The second to last name, in apartment 204, was Joseph Paul Novak.

  Bingo.

  She tried the buzzer twice. No response.

  Jessica walked out of the building, across the street. She got back in the car. 'There's a Joseph Novak in apartment 204. I buzzed. Nothing.'

  Byrne checked his side mirror, then did a U-turn, pulling up on the opposite side of the street in front of a Thai takeout. They had not stopped for lunch and the aromas were enticing. He put the Taurus in park, cut the engine. 'Want to stake it out for a little while?'

  'Sure,' Jessica said.

  They watched the pedestrian traffic up and down Abingdon Road. After ten minutes or so Jessica got restless. She got out of the car, crossed the street, leaned against a light pole, took out her cell. She pretended to have a conversation. Cellphones were, hands down, the best surveillance prop ever invented.

  Finally the door to the Beau Rive opened. The first person to walk out the building was a woman in her sixties, well-dressed and accessorized. When she reached the sidewalk she stopped, rummaged through her purse, then turned around in disgust, stormed back inside. She'd obviously fo
rgotten something.

  The second person to emerge was a man. He was black, in his late twenties, in a real hurry. He came out of the door buttoning a white chef's jacket. Jessica leaned back against the lamppost, called out:

  'Joseph?'

  No reaction. He didn't even acknowledge her. A few minutes later the woman reemerged and walked the other way down the street, a little more urgency to her stride. As a woman who forgot something at home every day, Jessica sympathized.

  Jessica then crossed the street, leaned against the car next to Byrne's open window, went back to pretending to be on the phone. Ten long minutes later another man came out of the building.

  'This is him,' Jessica said.

  'How do you know?'

  'I know.'

  Jessica walked across the sidewalk, gave her hair a quick fluff. 'Is that Joseph? The man turned around. He was tall, broad-shouldered, in his mid-thirties. He had brown hair nearly to his shoulders, a fashionable one-day growth of beard. He wore a dark overcoat. His skin was alabaster pale.

  'Do I know you?' he asked. His posture betrayed neither aggression nor retreat. Instead, he looked pleasantly curious.

  Jessica continued toward him. 'We met last year. You're Joseph Novak, right?'

  The man offered a half-smile but not one that fully committed himself to this conversation. 'I am. But I must confess I don't remember your name.'

  'My name is Jessica Balzano.' She produced her ID, held it up. 'I just need to talk to you for a few moments.'

  Joseph Novak looked at her badge, then back into her eyes. In this light his eyes were a pale blue, almost colorless. 'We've never met, have we?'

  'No,' Jessica said. 'That was just a bold subterfuge on my part.'

  The man smiled. 'Well played. But I can't imagine what it is I could tell you.' He looked over her shoulder. 'Or your partner.'

  It was Jessica's turn to smile. She always had to remind herself that she and Byrne were not that hard to make as cops. 'It won't take a minute.'

  Novak held up a #10 envelope. 'I just need to post this.' He pointed a half-block away, at a mailbox on the corner. He turned back to Jessica. 'I promise not to run.'

  Jessica glanced at the envelope. It did not look like the paper found at the crime scenes. 'In that case, I promise not to chase you.'

  Another smile. 'If you'll excuse me.'

  'Of course.'

  Novak threw one more glance at Byrne, then turned on his heels and walked toward the mailbox. Byrne got out of the car, crossed the street.

  'That was good,' he said.

  'I know.'

  Novak mailed the letter and, as promised, began to walk back up the block. His size and bearing made for a striking silhouette in the afternoon light.

  'Why don't you call Josh, tell him where we are?' Byrne said.

  Jessica got on her cell, filled Bontrager in. She closed her phone just as Novak returned to the steps in front of his apartment building. Novak turned his attention to Byrne.

  'I am Joseph Novak.'

  'Kevin Byrne,' Byrne said.

  'How can I help?' Novak asked.

  Jessica pointed at the door to Beau Rive. 'Do you think we could chat inside? As I said, we won't take up too much of your time.'

  Novak did not answer right away. When he saw that these two police officers were not about to leave, he relented. He gestured to the door. 'Please.'

  Chapter 31

  At the rear of the building, Joseph Novak's apartment was a large two-bedroom flat with ten-foot ceilings and an open floor plan. The furniture was modern, mostly brushed aluminum and leather. Against one wall, nearly floor-to-ceiling, were CDs in custom-made birch shelves. There had to be a thousand of them. Jessica noticed that they were sectioned off by category: Classical, Electronica, New Age, Jazz. There were also subcategories by composer, artist, era. Brahms, Beethoven, Bach, Enya, Parker, Mingus, Tyner, Mulligan, Chemical Brothers. The effect of sunlight streaming through the windows, playing off the crystal cases in rainbow hues, was dizzying.

  Upon entering the apartment Novak immediately crossed the room to the large desk at the other side and lowered the screen on his laptop, clicked it shut.

  'We won't take up too much of your time,' Byrne said.

  'Not at all,' Novak replied. 'Whatever I can do to help.'

  'Do you know why we're here, Mr. Novak?' Byrne asked.

  Novak sat at the desk, crossed his long legs. 'I'm afraid I do not.'

  Byrne placed a sheet with six photographs on the desk in front of Novak. Kenneth Beckman's picture was in the upper right-hand corner. They decided to start this way, inquiring about Beckman as if they were looking for a witness.

  Jessica watched Novak closely as his gaze fell on the photo lineup. If the man instantly recognized Beckman there was no indication.

  'Do you recognize any of these people?' Byrne asked.

  Novak gave the process a few seconds. 'No,' he said. 'Sorry.'

  'No problem.' Byrne left the photo array on the desk. He leaned against the wall near the large window, looking around the room, especially at the rack of complicated-looking electronic equipment and what might have been a sound mixing board.

  'May I ask what it is that you do for a living?' Byrne asked.

  'I am a recording engineer by trade,' Novak said. 'But I keep my hand in with all aspects of the music world. I review for jazz and classical publications.'

  'Interesting,' Byrne said. 'I'm a fan of classic blues, myself.'

  Novak smiled. 'I have a small but rather interesting collection of old blues. My treasure is the box set of 78s with early recordings of Mary Johnson, Scrapper Blackwell and Kokomo Arnold.'

  'Sweet. Any Roosevelt Sykes?'

  'Not yet.'

  Jessica stepped forward. In a situation like this, she and her partner liked to tag-team the person they were interviewing. If you split the person's attention it gave your partner the opportunity to look around, checking the small details of the room. One wall had a series of shelves with objets d'art on it. Small sculptures, Maori carvings, as well as a unique stainless steel bracelet with a single garnet stone inlaid.

  Jessica turned her attention back to the CDs. 'This is quite an impressive collection of music you have here,' Jessica said.

  'Thank you,' Novak said. 'I've been at it for quite a while. But I did not purchase most of them. Receiving free and promotional CDs for review is one of the perks of being a music critic.'

  'What's the downside?'

  'Listening to terrible music.'

  Jessica scanned the wall. 'So, from all of this music, do you have a favorite composer?'

  Novak smiled again. 'I imagine that is like asking an Eskimo if he has a favorite snowflake. If pressed, for me there is Johann Sebastian Bach, and then there is everyone else.'

  'I'm sorry to impose, but do you think I might use your restroom?' Jessica asked.

  This was another old ploy for investigators. It gave you the opportunity to see a little more of a person's dwelling while they were talking with your partner. Not to mention the opportunity to check out their medicine cabinet and perhaps discover what meds they were taking. Someone's medications could tell you a lot about them. Plus, it was a hard thing for people to say no to.

  Novak hesitated. His stare shifted to the hallway, then back. The question hung in the air.

  'Yes, of course,' he said finally. 'The second door on your right.'

  'Thanks.'

  Jessica walked down the hallway. The kitchen was on the left, the bathroom on the right. At the end of the hall was the bedroom, its door slightly ajar.

  Jessica stepped into the bathroom. It was spotless. On one wall was a large print, a black and white photograph of a man conducting an orchestra. The man was dark-haired, darkly handsome. He wore white tie and tails. Jessica looked at the caption: riccardo muti, 1986. Muti was the Italian conductor who had replaced Eugene Ormandy as the musical director of the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1980.

  Jessica peeked in
to the bamboo wastebasket to the right of the toilet. Empty. She opened the medicine cabinet gently. Gently, because she had once opened a medicine cabinet in a similar situation, without thinking, only to have a few bottles crash loudly into the sink.

  In the cabinet were an array of skincare products. No meds. If Joseph Novak took any medications, he did not keep them in his bathroom.

  When she had exhausted her search, Jessica flushed the toilet. She washed her hands anyway, to keep up the illusion, and because it was a deeply ingrained habit.

  She stepped out of the bathroom, listened. Byrne and Novak were still talking. She stepped to her right, inched open the bedroom door. The bedroom continued the rather industrial look of the apartment. There was a king-size platform bed, a pair of night stands bearing stainless steel lamps with rectangular linen shades.

  But it wasn't the furnishings that nearly took Jessica's breath away. The entire room was covered in paper. She had to look closely to believe what she was seeing. At first she thought it might have been some kind of creative wallpaper. It was not. What she'd at first thought was wall-covering was really hundreds and hundreds of photographs, articles, magazine covers, newspaper clippings, drawings. All of them seemed to be about one subject. Murder.

  Her eyes were drawn to a large corkboard. To it were pinned a number of tabloid pages. The page on top stopped her cold. It was a tear sheet from the sleazy local newspaper The Report. The headline read:

  Pummeled in Pennsport!

  The article was about a brutal murder in 2002. March 21, 2002 to be exact.

  The photograph was of a smiling Antoinette Chan.

  Jessica looked back down the hall, saw no one coming. She took her iPhone out of her pocket, stepped fully into the bedroom, and began to photograph the walls, hoping there was enough light. Then she walked back down the hall. She stepped into the living room, held up her phone.

  'Detective?'

  Both Byrne and Novak turned to look at her.

  'I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a call for you.'

  Byrne got up, walked across the living room, took a few steps down the hall. Jessica gestured to the opened bedroom door. Byrne stepped to the opening, took in the room. He stepped back.